


Still Breathing

by teapig



Series: The Terror one-shots [7]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Episode 8 Spoilers, M/M, Songfic, no happy endings here, yet more angst (surprise)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapig/pseuds/teapig
Summary: Harry knew he should have followed up the missing cocawine sooner. Now, he can only sit and watch the consequences unfold.(Songfic based on Tattle Tale - Glass Vase Cello Case)





	Still Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, a Pride month rewatch of But I'm A Cheerleader led me to the soundtrack, and this song in particular stood out. It's not on Spotify unfortunately, but you can listen to it here - https://youtu.be/gm60pXJJbtA . The perfect simplicity of the lyrics led me to these two, but unfortunately, we found them at a bad time.  
> One day I'll stop hurting the characters I love.  
> I hope.

He knew he should have followed up the sudden disappearance of the Peruvian – knowing both the mixture’s potency and Bridgens’ caution, there could never have been a good outcome of it. He’d told himself he’d keep an eye out for it among the men during the execution, not trusting his civilian stomach to be able to cope with watching someone with so much life, so much _spirit_ as Hickey being reduced to yet another lifeless body. Adding to the body count. Adding to the list of guilt he carried on his heart. He should have noticed that his lover wasn’t there. Of course, he’d glanced round, looking for that handsome, whiskered face – despite only coming to know it intimately after it had been scarred by the traumas of those two winters in the ice, Harry knew the warmth of Collins’ smile. Knew it had been rare lately. Should’ve known something was wrong when he didn’t see it amongst the rapidly-thinning crew. Of course, one could say he’d been focusing on the matter at hand – and maybe that was the truth of it. That, whilst using his skills, working under his Hippocratic oath, he’d been the key to condemning two men - two healthy, strong men, whose pulling power was sorely needed if they were to dream of getting home. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t looked for Henry then; he didn’t want to risk seeing the disappointment in his face, nor the now sickeningly familiar terror that had brought him to Harry time and time again now.

Then, from the North, there came an even rarer sound, at least to them – that of laughter. Once upon a time, it would have come as a welcome relief, its infectious quality sweeping through the rankings, lightening his workload for at least a little while. But here, now, it wasn’t _that_ kind of laughter at all. He stepped forward, his mind swimming with jumbled memories of Morfin’s last moments, of the sight of his broken mind lying spattered across the shingles – yet another man he’d failed. Following the glare of the lieutenant’s gun, he watched as the milky sun brought forth a man; his voice wracked with some strain of joy, cheeks flushed, panting as if he’d run a mile out of a sheer lust for life. In England, he’d be the picture of vigour and health. Here, he was the Arctic’s next victim. To Harry, he was his partner. His Henry. His world.

For a few moments, he could only stare as Collins staggered forward, with that unfamiliar grin on his face, and grasped Lieutenant Little’s shoulder, almost as if in consolation. Then, a roar sent everything scattering to hell. Tuunbaq’s path separated them, leaving a wake of destruction, of human years now laid bloodily to waste in between them. Harry could do nothing but trust, now - trust that the heightened sensations racing through his partner would be enough to keep him safe. He was going to be needed in so many places - but all he wanted was to be at his side, to _know_ what was happening to him instead of waiting in that awful anticipation.

But for now, he took the sick from Mr Bridgens as he brought them out one by one, half helping, half dragging them to the boats. How many of them would survive tonight to be dragged in these boats again tomorrow? Or would the shock, the gory terror all around them be enough to stop their already weak hearts? _To put them out of their misery?_ As he ran back to the next man, he scanned the faces of the bodies he passed - if not that, their clothing, looking for the familiar diver's patch on the sleeves of the dead. Its absence soothed him less than it should have - rather than relieving his anxiety, it only extended it.

_~ Are you still, still breathing? Are you still, still breathing? ~_

Tuunbaq was beginning to take down more and more of the tents - erupting out of nowhere to rip another innocent life from its root. Harry knew that, should the next tent be his own, his medical supplies would be laid to naught - and his ability to save lives taken with them. Ducking into the tent, he hurriedly grabbed whatever he could, hastily clearing the table when he heard that voice. "Find Mr Goodsir and bring him to the boat. We won't wait." He knew that voice. Knew the tone, knew the motive driving it. _But what could they want with me?_ He asked himself desperately, cramming himself down between the canvas of the tent and his medical case. _Is this what it takes to become a coward? It's even easier than he said..._ In the corner of his vision, the empty bottle of cocawine loomed over him, the label almost glowering – as if it knew that its power had been used to harm rather than heal. When had Henry come in? Of all the people he'd not been there for during these nightmarish few days, why did it have to have been him? In that moment, he prayed harder than he knew how, pleading, begging that Henry was still breathing, that he might see him at least one more time before one of them was taken. One chance to apologise. One to soothe. One more to say, "I love you." One more silent, shuddering embrace, the kind that could be break apart in a moment, but lived on in the mind until the next time.

_~ Are you still, still breathing? ~_

Some time later, Harry came to, his head throbbing and sight fuzzy as he was bundled into a boat. His case thudded down against him, adding another bruise to the growing collection hidden beneath his clothing. Twisting in the boat, he hauled himself up groggily, looking for someone, anyone to ask, to accuse, to haul him out.   _I’m needed here. In more ways than one_. Instead, he saw only the mist, and the various twitching limbs of the passing, men lying torn between keeping quiet to avoid being attacked a second time or begging for help – either for human aid; or for the creature to finish the job. The boat lurched under him as he stared behind him, trying to ignore the aching trickle of blood that was beginning to crack at the nape of his neck.

And there he was. Staggering out into the midst of the suffering, eyes blown wide, hands reaching out towards the dying, there was his Henry, flinching, stumbling, but still very much alive. He wanted to call out, to break from the confines of the boat and run to him - to get them to some kind of safety, somehow. To hold him, nurse him through the nightmarish effects of the Peruvian on his already tormented mind. To help him breathe freely, to take from the strength he still had to sustain them both, to carry them both home...

Someone had seen him peeking out, it seemed, for moments later he was struck again, his whole body being thrown against the stern of the little boat like a broken doll. The last thing he heard was the sickening roar of the Tuunbaq, the sound it only made when it was in significant pain. Briefly, his mind flickered to Silna - knowing full well what scared men may have done to her had she still been here when the creature had attacked. He hoped desperately that she was safe, at least. There were more shouts, more screams, more of those unnatural crunches of crushed bone. _Hold fast, Henry. We'll find a way back from the brink. We always do._

_~ Breathe into my hands are cupped, they’re like a glass to drink from... ~_

A few weeks passed indefinitely, the time drifting as Harry began to lose sight of how long it had been since he'd seen a friendly face. He did his bit in silence. Hauled. Set camp. Did what he could to ease the quick decline of his companions. Refused to tell anything but the blunt truth.

He heard no mention of that night until Sergeant Tozer ducked into his tent one evening, the sky as dark as an Arctic summer could get. "Scurvy or lead?" He asked, dull eyes fixed to the floor. Refusing to humour him, not in his quarters. "  
Neither." Tozer had stared sullenly at the floor; had started out by trying to grill Harry on what "that witch" had told him about Tuunbaq. Once Harry made it quite clear that he wasn't going to get anywhere with that, he quietly goaded Tozer into telling him the truth of why he had come in that night. He watched as Tozer all but folded in on himself, terrified at being forced to admit weakness, but knowing that he had to get it out.   
"My mind... Keeps going back to the night we left."   
_The night I almost had you killed, yes. The night you took my freedom._  
"I fear you're not alone in that, Sergeant. Many terrible things happened there."   
"I know. I saw it. I saw it rip into a man...."   
"...yes?" Harry replied, forcing himself to be patient, knowing that bitterness wouldn't help here, not now. Every man had seen someone taken by the beast, but he sensed that Tozer had something more to his story.   
"Saw it... Leave only his upper half intact. There was no blood on his face, but everywhere else was... Covered in it. I don't know if it was his or..." He paused, chewing on the inside of his lip. Harry waited in the silence, giving him the time he needed to get the words out. "I saw it take his soul, Mr Goodsir. Ripped it clean out. I don't know how I knew what it was, an’ it sounds ridiculous and all, but- but I saw it. Saw how changed his face was when it was over - once he was gone, I mean."   
"Did you know him well, Sergeant? Was he a friend of yours?" Harry softened his voice, tapping into the sympathy that this journey had fast been beating out of him, hardening his outlook. "Well, ‘e was a friend of all of ours, Doctor. It was Mr Collins."

That night, Harry's final hope died.


End file.
